Prairie Gothic by J.M. Hayes Page A

the Blazer into the storm, then closed the doors to make it less obvious in case no one had seen him in the act. The doors to the house stayed closed. No one ran into the yard to protest. He couldn’t even see anyone peering out a window. Mad Dog engaged the four-wheel drive and pulled out of the yard and onto the road.
    When he got to the blacktop it was clear. The highway ran almost as purely north/south as the wind and snow blew, so it wasn’t collecting drifts. He didn’t see any white pickups. He didn’t see any traffic whatsoever, not that that was unusual. As he passed the first mile line he considered driving back to get his Saab. The wind tried to tear the Blazer off the road and set it in a ditch and he decided this wasn’t the time. Buffalo Springs was straight ahead. Just a few miles and he was home free.
    â€œHey, Mister!” The little-girl voice came from the back seat. “When we get where we’re goin’, can I have some candy?”
    ***
    Three steps out the front door of the Sunshine Towers, the wind snatched the sheriff’s Stetson and launched it toward Oklahoma. He hardly noticed. He was feeling distinctly rocky, having trouble keeping the world lined up the way it was supposed to be. Besides, the hat didn’t fit that well anymore. Its new shape failed to conform to the new shape of his head. He tucked his chin into his wool collar and concentrated on putting one foot ahead of the other, and staying off the ice. The sidewalk tended to tilt occasionally. By the time he made the parking lot, things were stabilizing again. His pickup only shifted when the wind buffeted it.
    He aimed himself back toward Klausen’s, concentrating on keeping track of the edge of the streets. They were beginning to disappear under drifting snow and diminishing visibility. He didn’t notice Judy’s Taurus doing a one-eighty at the corner of Main and Adams as he crossed the latter a block south on Pear. He thought the ringing in his ears got worse once, then wondered if it might be his cell phone. It was buried so deep under his jacket he didn’t bother digging for it. He remembered turning it on before he left Alice Burton’s room. He’d started to make a call, then couldn’t recall who he was dialing, or why. His radio crackled at him too, but it was only static, at least to his ears. He couldn’t hear that well over the roar of the blower that was keeping his windshield from frosting up and letting him see just enough to navigate into Klausen’s parking lot.
    He was relieved to find Doc’s Buick still there and realized it would have been smart to call ahead to be sure. Maybe that was what he’d planned for the cell phone.
    He parked alongside Doc’s station wagon and made his way to Klausen’s back door with the same sure and certain steps of the final customer to heed last call at the nearby Bisonte Bar. The door was on the south side, out of the wind, collecting snow. The sheriff leaned against it for a moment, briefly confused about what he was doing here. He needed to get Doc to look at his head, but there was something else. Something about a baby doll. Maybe Doc would know.
    He let himself in and the long white corridor corkscrewed toward the front of the building in a totally unfamiliar manner. By leaning against the wall, the sheriff made it to Doc’s door. He didn’t bother to knock.
    â€œWhere’s the doll?” he demanded. It would have been more impressive if he’d managed to stay on his feet. Better yet, if Doc had been in the room.
    ***
    â€œWe can’t make it,” Wynn shouted. “We’ll have to go back to the cruiser.” The wind snatched his voice and muffled it in a garment woven of snowflakes. The Heathers managed to hear him anyway.
    â€œSure we can.” Heather English grabbed his shoulder and pointed with the other hand at the intersecting dirt roads just ahead.